The Great Beginnings.
It all began with a word — and that word was Religion.
Boring introduction - I understand.
But don't worry! I'm talking about the kind of Religion you find in fantasy novels. Not the real one. Legal team: relax, I'm not touching anything sacred here, okay? Please… let's all breathe.
People turn to it — and still do — for two main reasons:
It offers a kind of spiritual crutch. A handy, invisible support system you can lean on when, say, your partner tells you you're not exactly the biggest cowboy in the West — emotionally speaking, of course — and you suddenly feel a bit… deflated.
The beauty of this metaphysical crutch is that it's entirely portable, requires no batteries, and doesn't weigh you down.
You say a prayer, and boom — there it is, doing its job without interfering with your walking or other daily operations. Elegant. Ergonomic. Free of charge.
"Wait, so I just disappear? Forever? What's the point of all this? What's the meaning of life? Aaaaah!"
That's when Religion steps in like a seasoned campaign politician, promising you a kind of cosmic afterparty: a multiverse where angels, ancestors, and eternal pleasures await — assuming you were a good boy or girl.
If not… well, there's another subdivision. A bit less glamorous. More fire pits. More pointy sticks. You get the idea.
And that's the hook, right? (Not the sticks — the pleasures.) Religion gives you hope that even when your body checks out, your "self" — your consciousness, your precious qualia — remains intact. You get a holographic version of your body, allegedly indistinguishable from the one you left behind. So, in theory, you lose nothing in death. Well… except the return ticket to Earth. But who's really counting?
No jobs, no worries. Just endless parties till dawn and your mom and dad, young and happy again — most importantly, alive and right there next to you. I mean, come on, isn't that heaven? No doubt, that word fits best.
And everything would seem just fabulous and dreamlike, if not for one rather serious flaw in this otherwise flawless concept — a flaw no one who ended up in this magical land has bothered to fix. Maybe the marketing department slacked off, or maybe they just didn't see the point. Still, you'd
think that by now (given that time probably flows differently over there), someone — maybe some live-stream-obsessed dude — would've shown up.
Picture this guy: turns on his phone and yells into the mic:
"Yo, guys, this place is insane! Look — over there's the hookah lounge, over here's a swimming pool the size of a village, and right past that hill? That's the border to the Animal Kingdom — you know, the one where all creatures automatically go to Heaven! Anyway, five stars, highly recommend, smash that like button and subscribe to my ghost channel!"
But no such vlogger has ever appeared. So here we are, still stuck in the dark, wondering: is there anything beyond physical death, or is all of it just dust in the wind?
Humanity has spent millennia crafting all kinds of rituals to prepare the dead for whatever comes next — and to butter up the gods and afterlife transport staff (like that grumpy Greek guy Charon). In Taiwan, for example, there was once a tradition of throwing massive, noisy parties — the more guests showed up, the better the odds that ancestral spirits would grant the deceased a favorable transition.
In Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilization — aka ancient Sumer — people buried their dead right in their homes. Next to them, they'd place household items, weapons, and other supplies for the soul's trip to the underworld, where ghosts wandered and a hard-to-pronounce goddess named Ereshkigal ruled.
India, on the other hand, practiced a rather disturbing and deeply sexist ritual called Sati — where a widow was burned alive after her husband's death, since his passing was believed to be punishment for her soul's sins. And as always, someone decided sins must be paid for. Hence, the horror show…
The ancient Greeks were a little more aligned with modern burial ideas. They'd dig a standard grave, pop the body in, and place a stone inscribed with the deceased's name and deeds. It wasn't just sentimental — it was also part of their legal and religious system.
Across cultures and eras, humans have clung to one hope: that something of us continues — a shadow, a spirit, a sliver of being. Almost anything is acceptable, so long as we don't vanish as if we'd never been.
Eventually, people started catching on that maybe all those nice rituals weren't enough to snag immortality. So some turned to darker forces — selling souls, offering blood, making pacts. Maybe it'd get you ten more years. Or a hundred?
Here's the catch… as always, it all boils down to that simple internet-era question: "Got any proof?"
Of course not. There's never been any. But humanity isn't one to give up easy — so where Religion failed, maybe Magic could lend a hand!
Maybe that's what Genghis Khan thought, too.
Legend says that in his final years, feeling his body decay, the great conqueror sent messengers across his empire summoning all the healers, sorcerers, and level-80 wizards who might hold the secret to eternal life. They came in droves, offering potions and promises.
Here's how the Khan tested them: each magician had to drink their own brew. Then his guards chopped off their heads and tried reattaching them. If it stuck — hooray, immortality works. If not… well, thanks for playing.
Eventually, a wise old man (of course there's always one of those) came forward and calmly told the Khan: no such elixir exists. Immortality, he said, was a scam. The Khan believed him — and instead of chasing potions, prepped for one final war to conquer the entire world. According to the legend, he died in 1227 during a campaign against the Tangut kingdom (now Tibet).
Naturally, he wasn't the only one dreaming of biting into that juicy, sweet slice of the immortality pie. Everybody knows about the philosopher's stone and its endless cameos in fiction. So far, the only success story we've got is that famous book about a certain boy wizard.
In ancient times, people had tons of ideas — not all involving magic. Today, folks go on fasting cleanses to "rejuvenate" themselves. The ancient Greeks, though? They'd rather stuff their faces than count calories.
Democritus, who lived to be 104 (not that it proves anything — these toga guys all lived forever), swore by honey. If you mix honey with olive oil and take it daily, he claimed, your desired result will follow. Tempted to try it yet?
Then there was Francis Bacon (no, not the painter), a historian, statesman, and early empiricist who added a little science to the stew. His recipe? Earth miasma. He believed all life-force came from the soil — better than Botox and collagen injections! His advice: take a springtime stroll through the fields and breathe in that fresh dirt stink. Yum.
Count Saint Germain, legendary occultist and all-around wild card (also widely considered a con man), had his own solution. He claimed to have lived for centuries thanks to a special tea of his own invention. Russian playwright Denis Fonvizin's wife drank it regularly. Results? Predictable.
Occultists and witches have always milked the immortality cash cow. You've heard the story: sign a deal with the Devil and get eternal youth. From Countess Báthory bathing in virgin blood to Carlos Castaneda spinning tales in the New Age hippie era, the promise has always been the same.
Castaneda fed that 1960s hunger for freedom, LSD, spiritual awakenings, and warehouse orgies. He hypnotized a generation with his "Path of the Warrior" philosophy. Critics saw a savvy con man selling psychedelic fairy tales about "tonals," "naguals," and cosmic transformations — in exchange for real-world dollars from followers eager to eat peyote and find enlightenment. Castaneda insisted that with his teachings, death would be meaningless — you'd shift into a new energetic state.
Whether that worked is unclear. He didn't go down in a fireball — he died of liver cancer, which is just… grim. And like our imaginary heaven-streamer, Castaneda didn't bother filming a goodbye vlog to let us know if it all paid off. Sure, there were no livestreams back then, but I'm pretty sure every one of us would've happily watched a VHS tape about his death trip.
I'm not mocking his death. I'm mocking his lies — because he was a great sci-fi writer.